The Privilege of the Sword (19 page)

I
N THE CARRIAGE, HER MOTHER HUGGED HER AND THEN
shook her. “What do you mean, languishing in front of Lord Ferris like that? Do you want to get a reputation as a vaporish miss? No man wants a sickly wife!”

“No, Mama,” she said, too tired and ill to try to explain how well the rest of the evening had gone. Her mother would surely hear of it from the other girls’ mothers. “But he said I was a jewel and an ornament, Mama.”

“He is a man of very good address,” said Lady Fitz-Levi. “He married late, but Ferris has always had a way with women.”

“I did not know that he was married, Mama.”

“She died, poor thing, and his heir with her. Sickly, both of them. So you see where that gets you, miss!”

But her mama was pleased enough when the flowers began to arrive the next morning: lilies from Petrus Davenant, chrysanthemums from an anonymous admirer, more mums from Terence Monteith, even a bunch of carnations from her cousin Lucius. And from Lord Ferris, a great bunch of white roses.

chapter
V

T
HE COLD ENCLOSED AND ENFOLDED US.
D
AYS WERE
short; when they were fair the sun was sharp and clear, the earth hard and sparkly with frost, and I dressed in layers of clothes and set out across the fields, to race back again before early sunset stained the sky violet. I dredged up old nursery games and riddles to amuse us by the fire, and we burned a wealth of beeswax candles keeping up with our reading. Highcombe was well endowed with history books. Some of them weren’t bad. I learned a lot about the habits and practices of my noble ancestors that no one had seen fit to teach me before. There was a lot more to history than dates: you had taxes and alliances and trade and secrets, and the wicked ways of certain kings. My teacher was particularly fascinated with battles. We spent hours and stacks of twigs, pebbles and candle-ends setting up and replaying the Battle of Pommerey. I was more interested in travel, though, and so we also learned about the wonders and marvels of foreign lands.

“It’s never cold in Chartil,” I suggested, “even in the winter, and all the noblemen are swordsmen, too. Let’s go there.”

“It would be summer by the time we got there,” he said. “I understand, their summers, you can cook an egg on a rooftop.”

“Well, how about one of the Cycladian Islands? Here’s one, Kyros: ‘the climate temperate, and so too its handsome inhabitants, who take their industry and pleasant mien from the humming of the bees that do perpetually labor and sing in the great banks of thyme and olive orchards to make that honey which is renowned throughout the world, as its sands are for whiteness.’”

“Promising. But it sounds a bit like poetry; not reliable. How about the place with the two-headed beasts that uproot trees with their tusks?”

“And red flowers big as cottages? You think that’s reliable?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

But we didn’t really want to go far from the fire.

We practiced, of course. I practiced my footwork up and down the house’s long gallery, but my favorite drill was a kind of game where we’d sit at either end of the cottage hearth, using nothing but our arms, working out flashy and subtle wristwork. There was a pile of nuts in the middle. Every touch was one nut to the victor, and every flinch, start or attempt to use the legs was a forfeit of two. I was lucky if I had any by the end of a bout. He could sometimes be tricked into moving too soon; I kept the first one I ever won off of him by feinting.

The tiny staff that kept Highcombe in order for its owner kept us well supplied with food and comforts. But if before I had secretly envied the grandeur of its halls and chambers, wishing we might occupy them ourselves, now I was reluctant to venture into those icy caverns.

As the winter dragged on, night and day alike seemed grey and steely and unwelcoming. I missed the snow we had back home. Around Highcombe it never got deep enough to be much fun.

I couldn’t stay indoors all the time, though. And I liked looking at the patterns the bare branches made against the sky, the cracks of ice on the path, the dried grass frozen in the field. Sometimes just before nightfall the sky would clear. There was that one night I caught the most glorious sunset at the top of the rise, and ran all the way back to the cottage against the shadows. The smoke from our chimney was heavy. When I came indoors, I found him sitting by a fire going so strong that the room was really hot.

The master’s face was golden. “Put more logs on,” he said; “really pile them high. It’s Year’s End tonight.”

“Is it?” I thought of the famous city Last Night parties I would be missing. The notion of all that glitter and noise made my head ache. Sparks shot up as I dumped the new logs on the blaze. “I should have baked a cake, or something.”

“No; I think a fire is just right to celebrate the Sun’s return. When I was a boy, we built bonfires and threw all sorts of things on them.”

“Oh! They did that down in our village, but we were never allowed to go.” I pitched another log on in remembrance. It was so hot, we had to move away from the hearth, and I stripped down to jacket and shirt. “We had a big fire at home, and threw our naughtiness and regrets onto it.”

The master smiled into his past. “Yes, bonfires, and people got very drunk and danced; that’s probably why you weren’t allowed.”

I watched and let the flames dance for me. Year’s End, and another year begun. In spring, I would dig out some beds. Maybe when the roads cleared, I would ride out to see my mother, and get some seeds from home. We could have little baby carrots in July.

“Listen!”

Carriage wheels rumbled on the drive. I grasped the leg of his chair without meaning to. Oh, please, I thought, oh please don’t let it be anyone coming here. Please don’t let them find us. The carriage swept on up the drive toward the main house. We both sat very still, listening.

“Maybe it’s someone come to pay a Last Night call on the duke,” I offered.

“They’d know he’s not in residence.”

“Maybe—maybe he told them he would be.”

The master smiled, slowly, to himself. He knew my uncle. “Maybe he did.”

Over the crackle of the fire we heard shouts and whoops of laughter, then doors slamming, and then nothing at all.

“In the main house.”

“What if it’s thieves?” I gasped.

“I doubt it, making that racket. Still…” He took up his sword. But nothing happened. No more sounds from the house.

“Should we go look?” I said.

He said, “Just wait.”

My teacher slipped his jacket off, and sat with his sword in his shirtsleeves before the blazing hearth.

Next to the hearth, the doorlatch clicked. It was someone from the house who had a key. The swordsman’s hand tightened on the hilt; then I saw him sit back.

“Hello,” said the man in the doorway. “I’ve brought us some fish.” He had a large basket on either arm. “And some very good wine, and cakes, and smoked goose, and candied fruit and anise wafers. I hope you’re hungry. I am.”

“Hello.” The master was smiling at my uncle as though the sun had risen early. “Come in. Sit down. Have something to eat.”

My uncle the Mad Duke edged his way in, cumbered with baskets and parcels. He dumped everything onto the table. His eyes were on the master; but he never came near him, as though the man were a fire that burned too hot for him to approach.

I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people who had to come here on this night of all nights, why did it have to be him? Why didn’t he warn us he was coming? Why didn’t he ask me how I was? I’d almost rather it were burglars after all. I busied myself unwrapping things, opening jars and unfolding layers of paper. The duke said nothing ’til I took out my knife to cut a knotted string.

“Here,” he said, “I’ve brought you something.”

He reached into his coat, produced a slender bundle. “Happy New Year. A little early.”

Oh, no. Should I have been stitching him some slippers or something? I hadn’t made anything for anyone, hadn’t even thought about them. Well, it was too late now. I unwrapped the duke’s present.

It was a dagger in a glorious sheath of chased leather. The grip was twisted to look like vines, and the blade, when I pulled it, was bright and damascened, chased with a pattern of leaves.

“She likes it,” the duke said to my master.

“She does.”

“What have you been teaching her, then; useful things?”

“Very. She’ll do all right.”

The duke and my teacher seemed to know one another so well, they could leave half the words out and still have perfect understanding. I had to pretend not to hear them. Everything they said was for each other. I busied myself with putting the new knife on my belt. They were talking about me, though; that was something. I rather hoped the master would praise my progress at swordplay, but he did not, or not that I could hear.

The duke shook out his long hair, and cast aside scarves and overcoat. “It’s hot in here. Good. It was cold on the road.”

“A sudden whim?”

“Just so. My friends were bored, and decided they wanted a country party.”

“Friends? What friends?”

“Oh, Davenant, Hetley, young Galing…They’ve taken to following me around. Their lives are so dull. I said I was coming here for Year’s End, and they insisted on coming too. I don’t know; I think they must have been drunk or something.”

“Oh, Alec.” The swordsman sounded very amused. “What have you done now?”

“Well, they
would
come. But I seem to have lost them.”

“Lost them?”

“Somewhere in the Great Hall. It was so dark in there.”

“You left them in the hall. In the dark. My dear, did you forget to tell them that the staff always goes home for the White Days? Or did you just forget?”

“Is that why it was so cold?” My teacher made a noise. “Oh, well, they’ll find wood. And somewhere to sleep—God knows there’s plenty of rooms in this pile.”

He really
was
mad, I thought. But my teacher was laughing.

“Here.” The duke had gotten a bottle of wine open. He found the dolphin glasses, and a cup for me. “Don’t drink too much; wait ’til it warms up a bit, it tastes better.” But already Tremontaine’s wine exhaled the tang of summer raspberries, and the savor of sun on apple wood.

He busied himself with plates and spoons like any footman. “Cherries? No, you don’t like them—good, more for me—try the cheese, it’s got something odd in it; oh damn, the fish is squashed, but here, have a bite….”

I had forgotten food could taste this good, with layers of flavor and texture. The lovely wine washed it all down with waves of richness, and then there was sweet wine for the wafers and the fruit and the cakes, which were not squashed but retained the shapes of flowers, with sugar leaves and marzipan bees and another wine for them, as well.

“And how is your honey?” I heard the duke ask.

“If you think I can eat any honey after all this—”

“No, no, I was just being polite. About your bees.”

“I’ll tell them you asked after them, next time I see them.”

That thought of the master conveying the duke’s compliments to his bees made me giggle, which made me cough, so I drank more wine. I don’t always like wine, but this was wonderful stuff, what the duke gave me.

“Let’s see, you’ve got your bees, and what—do you garden now? Or fish?”

“Oh, now, fishing…where’s the challenge in that?”

I let out a whoop at the picture: the master would be holding the one sword, and a bright gold fish the other, and they’d bow to each other and then they’d…I thought I would never stop laughing. It would be better to go outside and get a breath of fresh air, but the only door I could find was right next to the fire, and that was no good. The other side of that door was grey and cold, nowhere to travel on such a night.

The hearth was heaped with red and golden coals, now, like a pile of roses. I wondered what it would be like to lie down in it. What kind of creature would I have to be, to lie in the fire and not feel it? I began to see little beings, flickering white hot in the spaces between embers. They winked and danced and sometimes seemed to sing. I watched them for a long time, as the fire grew darker and they slept, or departed for hotter fires.

The men were talking, ignoring me; they didn’t see what I saw. Stories that burned themselves into my eyes, that faded away as the fire died and the year ended. I turned to tell them, and found that the room was spinning.

The room was spinning. I lay down on the master’s pallet, because I was too dizzy to make it all the way up the stairs. It was very quiet, lying down, and dark. I must have slept; then voices began weaving their way into my dreams, words that were about to have meanings, but then they changed before I could follow them. Voices I knew, but sounding all wrong. I knew where I was, safe at Highcombe, but it didn’t make any sense because my uncle the Mad Duke was here.

“What about
her
?” I dreamed them saying it.

“She’s asleep.”

I opened my eyes to show I was not asleep, but all I could see was red fire; I was still in the heart of the fire.